Not wind. Not the creak of frozen branches, but a soft, deliberate crunch of snow under weight.
Tristan went still, every sense sharpening. He set down the supplies and moved to the shed's door, peering out into the whiteout.
Nothing visible. But the sound came again, closer now. Footsteps that didn't quite match any pattern he recognized. Too light for a bear. Too heavy for a fox. Wrong rhythm for a wolf or any four-legged creature.
Something walking on two legs. Something that wasn't human.
Heat surged through him, the shift pressing hard against his skin. He let it come partway, feeling his eyes change, pupils elongating as tiger vision cut through the darkness. The world sharpened into contrasts of gray and white, movement becoming easier to track.
There. Near the treeline.
A figure stood motionless in the snow, barely visible through the storm. Tall. Thin. Shaped like a woman but wrong somehow, proportions slightly off, limbs too long, posture too still.
Tristan's hand went to the knife at his belt. The figure didn't move.
He stepped out of the shed, letting the door bang shut behind him. The sound should've startled prey, should've prompted flight or fight. The figure remained frozen, watching him with eyes he couldn't quite see through the swirling white.
Then it turned and walked into the trees.
No hurry. No fear. Just a calm, deliberate retreat that felt more like an invitation than an escape.
Every instinct screamed trap but Tristan followed anyway.
The tracks appeared almost immediately, pressed into fresh snow with unnatural precision. Humanoid footprints, barefoot despite the freezing cold, each one perfectly formed with no sign of sliding or stumbling. The stride was too long, covering ground that should've required running at a walking pace.
He followed the prints for thirty yards before they simply stopped.
No divergence. No sign of climbing or jumping. The tracks ended mid-stride as if whatever made them had simply ceased to exist.
Or had never been fully real to begin with.
Tristan crouched, studying the last print. His tiger eyes caught details normal vision would miss, like the faint shimmer of residual magic clinging to the impression and the way snow had melted slightly around the edges despite the cold.
Shadow signature. The same cold-burn he'd seen at the lake, at the forge, on the scorched mantel.
But Maren was inside. Had been inside when the window broke, when the supernatural wind hit, when whatever this was had started walking around the safe house.
Someone else was using shadow magic.
He committed the track pattern to memory and headed back toward the cabin, moving faster now. The storm seemed to press closer, snow falling so thick he could barely see the safe house lights until he was almost at the door.
The supplies were still in the shed. He retrieved them quickly, checking the perimeter as he went, finding no new tracks, no new signs of whatever had been watching.
Warmth rushed over him as he stepped inside the cabin, the contrast with the outside cold almost painful.
He shrugged off his coat about to say something to Maren before stopping himself.
Maren was fast asleep, curled up in the chair by the fire, her cloak pulled around her like a blanket. Her black curls had fallen across her face, and her breathing came slow and even. The stress lines that usually marked her features had softened, making her look almost vulnerable.
Her shadows had spread throughout the room while she slept, thin dark tendrils covering the walls and floor like a living security system. They stirred when Tristan entered, rising slightly before settling back down.
They seemed to recognize him and accept his presence.
The broken window gaped cold and jagged behind her chair. She'd positioned herself between it and the door, he realized. Guarding both entry points even in sleep.
Tristan moved quietly, setting down the supplies and examining the window frame. The damage was worse than he'd thought. It wasn’t just cracked glass, but splintered wood too. Like something had tried to force its way through rather than simply break it.
He quietly boarded up the window with practiced efficiency. Hammer strikes muffled by the storm outside, nails driven deep into aged wood. The safe house groaned but held, accepting the repairs like a patient accepting medicine.
